


End of the night

by rosa_himmelblau



Series: The Roadhouse Blues [17]
Category: Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:26:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26027191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: In the middle of a dark night, Sonny confesses.
Series: The Roadhouse Blues [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1069713





	End of the night

They lay in the cool, dark room, Sonny on his back, looking up at the ceiling, Vinnie on his side, nestled against Sonny—until he was driven away, not by his dispassionate, nearly disinterested words, but by the terrified pounding of Sonny's heart as he spoke them. The recitation didn't last long; Sonny was hardly a mass murderer. When he was finished, he sighed, and Vinnie turned his back to him, watching his words prowl the shadows. They would be there forever now.

Vinnie thought about the awful things Sonny had told him, about the timing of it. This morning they'd argued, over nothing, really, but things had gotten out of hand with amazing speed, and he'd nearly walked out on Sonny for good. And not for the first time.

And now, in their next moment of intimacy, Sonny had touched Vinnie with this lurid ugliness from his past. Was it meant to drive him away? And all Vinnie could think was, _It's not like I didn't know. It's not like I didn't know just who you are. What I don't understand is why you had to **tell** me._ And then he thought of all the times Sonny had held him so tenderly, while reality and unreality collided in Vinnie's head.

Sonny didn't say any more. What more was there to say? What excuses could be made? There was no remorse, and this was no confession, just a statement of dismal fact; not even a story, just an outdated bus schedule. Sonny wasn't looking for absolution, or even understanding, and Vinnie didn't know what he **was** looking for.

After a while, when only the streetlight lit the room, Vinnie got out of bed.

"Leaving?" Sonny's voice followed him—anxious? Predatory? Tired.

_If I said yes, would you try to stop me? And if so, how? With kisses or with . . . ?_ "Bathroom," Vinnie responded briefly. _Where is there to go, even if I wanted to? Would I? Where would I go?_

_Nowhere.  
_  
"Ought to get some sleep," Sonny said, sounding like someone Vinnie knew but couldn't place.

_The dark side of the sun; no such thing. Oh, yeah? This is it. The dark side—_ Vinnie stood in front of the toilet, thought of all the people Sonny had named, and of all the people **he** could name. Was he looking for _quid pro quo?_ What would he think if he found out Vinnie's list was longer? Would it matter?

“I should care about this,” Vinnie whispered to himself. “I should care . . . .” But the more he thought about it, the less it mattered, and somehow, the worse Vinnie felt. “We're both murderers.”

_Did anyone ever say a prayer over them—any of them?_ Vinnie shivered, washed his hands, splashed cold water over his face. "Set the alarm, will you?” he said to Sonny. “I want to go to Mass in the morning."


End file.
